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DRIVING; The Sweet Sounds of Destruction

WHEN the flatbed truck belonging to Jimmy Hummel, a 23-year demolition derby veteran known as Wild Man Primmy, rolled into the dirt lot outside Riverhead Raceway on a recent Saturday, even the local heavy hitters put down their beer cans to gape. Their own four-wheeled battering rams were nothing to sneeze at, but the tanklike 1965 Chrysler riding atop Mr. Hummel's flatbed was unquestionably a monster. Though every inch of the huge car's black steel skin was battered from scores of violent collisions in two previous derbies, its frame remained astonishingly unharmed, and it looked more than ready to fight another day. Splashed across its rear, hand-painted orange letters read ''Take No Prisoners.''

''That's an Imperial. They're banned in 90 percent of the tracks around the country,'' grumbled Mike O'Keefe, the defending raceway champion and Irish Mike to his fans. ''It's got a solid chassis that just don't bend.''

Weighing in at 5,200 pounds, Mr. Hummel's Chrysler Imperial is a prized model in the most feared class of eight-cylinder demolition derby vehicles: the mid-60's through mid-70's behemoths known as ''heavy iron'' or ''old iron'' cars. Such overbuilt rear-drive vehicles, including Nixon-era mastodons like the Pontiac Catalina and the Chrysler New Yorker, are favored for their robust frames and tough steel, which allow them to administer and withstand generous punishment.

But lately, the treasured old-iron dinosaurs have become an endangered species, especially in northern states, as an unforgiving climate, salted winter roads and voracious scrap-metal dealers have conspired to eat up the supply of battle-worthy clunkers. Compounding the difficulty of obtaining the old-iron V-8's is the widespread reluctance of sentimental car owners to sell their beloved jalopies knowingly to anyone who intends to smash them. To skirt this roadblock, Bob Genovese, a Riverhead regular known as Bobby Whiplash, softens up prospective sellers by presenting them with a bogus Chrysler Club card he created on his home computer. ''I say I'm going to restore the car, that I've put them in museums,'' Mr. Genovese said.

By one count, about 85 percent of demolition derbies nationwide now use post-1980 cars, whose flimsier frames and inferior steel are sometimes reinforced with sanctioned modifications. And at Riverhead, most eight-cylinder shows have been replaced by contests for four-cylinder cars, taxis, police cars (complete with wailing sirens) and even school buses, a favorite among schoolchildren on summer vacation. Eight-cylinder derbies are likely to vanish from Riverhead in four or five years, said Jim Cromarty, who owns the track with his wife, Barbara. ''Seven years ago at our big demo in September, we always got 100 cars, and last year it was 45,'' Mr. Cromarty said. ''You don't have to be a genius to figure out you've got a problem.''

Still, to purists, nothing can quite match the exquisite clamor of old-iron leviathans colliding at 40 miles an hour. ''If you're sitting in the grandstand, you can almost feel it in your chest muscles,'' Bob Finan, the longtime Riverhead announcer, said wistfully.

And so, on the last Saturday in June, a crowd of 3,000 paying rubberneckers gathered at Riverhead to witness this peculiarly American pastime in its traditional form as the raceway held the first of the two eight-cylinder smash-ups on its 2004 schedule. A healthy turnout of 18 gaudily hand-painted cars lumbered into the pits throughout the afternoon. In keeping with the rules, all had their hoods chained shut and their doors chained and welded as well.

The appeal? ''It's fun to hit someone at 40 miles an hour and your car don't get a dent,'' said Mr. Hummel, 41, a garrulous plumber from Bay Shore, after unloading his big car from its trailer. ''You get all your aggression out from all the idiots who cut you off all week on the highway.''

THOUGH the sport's precise origins are unknown, Todd Dubé, president of Demolition Events National Tour (that's DENT, of course), points to a 1951 event in Franklin County, Wis., as the first demolition competition. But the man who brought the derbies crashing into the American consciousness was Larry Mendelsohn, a stock-car driver and masterful promoter who had a ''eureka'' moment when he noticed that highway collisions always attracted legions of gawking rubberneckers.

Beginning in 1959, Mr. Mendelsohn began packing the grandstands at Islip Speedway in New York for competitions devoted entirely to the gladiatorial destruction of family automobiles. To attract drivers and spectators, he took out sensational newspaper advertisements: ''Wanted: 100 Men Not Afraid to Die.''

Today, the derbies remain hands-down the most lucrative events at county fairs around the country. More than 8,000 are run each year, drawing an average of 3,000 spectators each, according to a survey by the International Demolition Derby Association, a trade group. In accordance with rules that Darwin might appreciate, the last man running wins, taking home a purse that is typically around $500 but that can be as high as $10,000 at top events. Some participants also take home broken bones and brand-new gap-tooth smiles.

At the Riverhead track, Mr. Hummel greeted his fellow Long Islanders with a staccato cackle and cheerfully announced his intention to hit early and often. ''I'm going to play crash-test dummy tonight,'' he said. The Long Island drivers then gathered around Irish Mike O'Keefe's battle-worn 1967 Chrysler Newport, which was painted bumper-to-bumper with the Irish flag, and traded observations and expletives about which arriving vehicles presented threats.

Three undersize 1980's cars -- the models that have replaced old-iron cars at many tracks around the country -- were identified dismissively as ''one-hit wonders,'' soft targets that could be knocked out of commission with a single blow. One of them, a 1984 Pontiac Bonneville numbered double zero, was essentially a cipher: no name, no decoration and, it seemed, no chance.

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Spirits were high, and for such a violent sport the atmosphere in the pits was devoid of any overt conflict -- until the Jersey boys arrived.

Led by Suicide Steve Rossics, an affable gutter installer driving a tough green 1973 Chevy Impala, the trio rolled through the gate in a procession of cheeky defiance. ''American Badass'' was emblazoned across one car, a 1978 Lincoln, from which flew a filthy American flag duct-taped to a PVC pipe.

''It's so personal between me and Steve, it's not even funny,'' Mr. Hummel hollered, cackling again.

The bad blood went back to 1998 when Mr. Rossics beat out Mr. Hummel for the championship at Wall Speedway in New Jersey, only to have the title stripped from him on a technicality. Mr. Hummel then seized the trophy from Mr. Rossics in front of local television cameras and giddily declared himself the New Jersey State Demo Champion. Last summer, Suicide Steve returned the favor by invading Riverhead and winning at Mr. Hummel's home track.

Over by the Irish-flag Chrysler, deals were struck: seven of the Long Islanders would put aside their internecine grudges and clobber the Jersey boys first. ''And if any of those one-hit wonders hit us, they're dead,'' Irish Mike said.

Darkness fell, and the cars streamed onto the track, arranging themselves in a colorful circle, all pointed out and ready to ram each other with their rear ends (to protect their engines). ''Let's wreck some cars!'' the announcer cried. A track official swung a green flag, 18 mufflerless V-8 engines gurgled and roared, and the melee was on.

The carnage was instantaneous. Tons of sheet metal collided in a series of deafening, overlapping thuds. Hoods popped open and vomited smoke. Tires squealed and moaned as cars circled back on each other for vengeance. Within 10 minutes, the asphalt battlefield was a wasteland of mangled metal and car carcasses, veiled in swirls of thick smoke.

Three survivors soon emerged from the haze: the hulking cars of Mr. Hummel and Mr. Rossics -- and double zero, the little one-hit wonder. Mr. Hummel's and Mr. Rossics's cars were still recognizable as cars, but double zero's rear end had been flattened accordion-style, and its front end resembled a gaping mouth, loose chains dragging on the blacktop like battered braces.

While the two old-iron beasts backed into each other again and again with shuddering impact, the little double zero repeatedly sought out Mr. Hummel and tagged him broadside. At last, Mr. Rossics's engine gave out, and Mr. Hummel turned his full attention to double zero, his 5,200-pound old-iron hulk hammering the 3,300-pound 1984 upstart until the Pontiac's back end was partially peeled up over its middle section like a sheet-metal banana skin.

The two cars faced off one last time. Double zero had punctured one of Mr. Hummel's tires, and smoke boiled from beneath the big Chrysler's hood. Smelling blood, double zero's driver backed up to position himself for the kill, but his broken rear axle fell away as Mr. Hummel, his steering gone, wobbled punch-drunk toward the Pontiac and delivered a death blow that echoed across the track.

Robert Endlekofer, the driver of the Bonneville, emerged from his wreck grinning ear to ear, his sore neck notwithstanding. ''It's an Imperial!'' he said. ''At first I thought I had no chance, but then I kept plugging away. I went up against an Imperial!''

For his part, the victorious Mr. Hummel was too breathless even to cackle. ''I thought he was going to beat me,'' he exclaimed, shaking his head. ''I said to myself, 'Oh man, I'm going to lose to that little car.' ''

It was nearly midnight, and the floodlighted track was almost empty as Mr. Hummel winched his ruined Chrysler back onto his flatbed for its final trip. Though the day is surely coming when the classic eight-cylinder cars will be replaced once and for all by newer models, on this night of thunderous destruction, one thing was clear: the old-iron warhorses will not go gentle into that good night.

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A version of this article appears in print on July 30, 2004, on Page F00001 of the National edition with the headline: DRIVING; The Sweet Sounds of Destruction. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe